a bird call is a trap. a fox hound is a tool. and if the goose
speaks: turn the lights off and get to bed. the elephant
in san diego paints all the oceans blue. the preacher
on tv lets the widow know that her dead husband
wants her to move on, sell the house, and move to tucson.
the for sale sign in the front yard is real. the realtor’s phone
needs more call waiting lines. i hope all the news from here
on out is small enough to share over the phone.
let there never be pleasant music in the horror movies. or,
be quick to cover the little geeses’ eyes. may the farm up
north never become too crowded with old pets. may you
believe in whatever you need to believe in until you
don’t need to believe in it anymore. there’s a movie
where everyone’s prayers get answered, and another
where the bread doesn’t slowly kill the geese. they
have to end sometime. the actor needs his paycheck,
and the usher needs to pick up his dry cleaning
before the cleaners close.
and for everyone’s sake hopefully the doctor on call
gets to sleep through the night. trust me, i want all
the paintings at the garage sale to be original picassos
too. let’s break into the factory farms and let the chickens
die in peace. i need a distraction. there’s a ribbon cutting
ceremony in the new cancer wing. the minor league team
is giving away bobbleheads. tomorrow it will most likely rain.
is there a setting to slow down the closed captions?
Sean Cho A.
Sean Cho A. is the author of American Home (Autumn House, 2021), winner of the Autumn House Press chapbook contest. His work can be future found or ignored in Copper Nickel, Prairie Schooner, The Massachusetts Review, and Nashville Review, among others. Sean is a graduate of the MFA program at The University of California, Irvine and a Ph.D. student at the University of Cincinnati. He is the Editor in Chief of The Account.